


Cold Thoughts, Warm Memories

by touchyourblood



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Amnesia, Captain America: The First Avenger, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Human Experimentation, Mindwiping, POV Bucky Barnes, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Torture, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-02 23:25:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2829860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/touchyourblood/pseuds/touchyourblood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky never liked the cold. Lucky for him, Steve has always been warm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cold Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> Just a pair of snippets I wrote a while ago. This part takes place from right after the deleted scene in The First Avenger showing Bucky's capture until Steve finds him in the facility.  
> Please comment if you liked! Or didn't like. Either way.

_We’ve been captured._

They’re forced to walk for he’s not sure how long. Eventually their captors—whoever they are, they can’t be German allies after they disintegrated their troops without a second thought—show mercy and load them into the backs of trucks. They’re cramped inside with no room to move at all. It’s hard to breathe. No one says a word. They’re too exhausted, too beat down. The only sound for hours is the occasional cough or grunt of pain. Bucky tries to remember what happened; burst of light, Nazis turning to dust, a tank bigger and more horrifying than any he’d ever seen. After that was nothing but noise and blinding light until he opened his eyes to the man in the strange black uniform. 

_Where are they taking us? Who are they? What do they want with us? Am I going to die? What’s going to happen to Steve? Oh God,_ Steve. 

He’d promised to come back alive. He’d promised Steve he’d come home. How could he hope to keep it now? He had to find a way, he had to live, he just _had_ to. Steve would kill him if he didn’t. Or worse, he’d die himself. Scrawny, sickly little Steve; there’s just no way Bucky can die and leave him on his own. Sure, there was far more to him than met the eye, but sometimes that just wasn’t enough. 

It wasn’t enough to help him fight off bullies in some back alley. It wasn’t enough to pay the rent when no one would hire a man with such a weak, frail body. It wasn’t enough to aid his breathing when his asthma got out of hand. It wasn’t enough to get him through the winter, when he’d be in bed suffering pneumonia and scarlet fever and a hundred colds in his head and chest from December to March. It wasn’t enough to keep him from collapsing from heat in the summer with his poor Irish skin burned a hideous shade of red. 

Steve could survive on his own, he really could. That punk was much tougher than he seemed. Tougher than Bucky, maybe, when it really counted. Bucky knew that, but he still couldn’t stand the thought of him having to. Not when there was no one else in the world willing to lend him a hand, to give him a chance. He couldn’t hold a decent job, not when he was half-dead all winter and summer, and barely any better in the spring and fall. There weren’t many options for him; delivering newspapers and shining shoes on the corner and selling his drawings for a nickel each. More often than not, Bucky paid both their shares of the rent. How much harder would poor Steve have to work to make up the difference? 

More importantly, how long could he possibly go on living so _alone_? The whole world looking at him as though he were subhuman, worthless. Not a friend left in the world. 

_That’s not going to happen. I won’t let it. I’m going home._

The first thing he notices when they’re taken out of the trucks is the cold. He’s never liked the cold. It bites and it stings and it rips its way to the bones. It paralyzes the lungs, hardens the skin until it cracks and bleeds. It steals the life from everything, clinging on as long as it can. And worst of all, it burns. Burns worse than any fire ever could. It burns so bad he’s almost grateful their poverty has for years forced Bucky and Steve to share a single bed; despite his tiny frame, Steve always felt warm. Always. He kept the cold at bay and Bucky knew he would never be able to fend off enough bullies to repay him for that. 

The cold only grows stronger in the days that follow, as they’re kept like dogs in cages and forced to work to the bone making weapons for their captors. Whoever they are. They’re German, mostly, but they aren’t with the Nazis. Hydra, he thinks he hears them call themselves. They’ve left the Nazis behind, one of them definitely says. He’s not sure what to make of that. He doesn’t have time to think, between the hunger and exhaustion and the biting cold. 

Then the day comes when the guards take him away from the cages. He’s not the only one; thirty of them at least are taken far away from the others and forced into single cells. He stands at first, but soon his legs won’t hold and he leans against the wall and slides down. He wraps his arms around himself; the cold is worse here than in the cages. Bucky can’t stop shivering and wishes more than ever to be at home again. With Steve. Safe and sound. Both of them. 

They’re all cut off from one another now, he and his fellow captives, but they can still hear one another. They take advantage of it to pass along names and ranks and countries. Bucky doesn’t understand everyone, not with some speaking French and Russian and he’s not sure what else—he was never very good at learning other languages—but he gives them his name and his rank anyway. It’s all they can do to cling to the hope that their unity will give them a chance to survive. 

He’s yanked to his feet before he has the chance to realize the door to his cell has opened. Dragged into another room filled with strange equipment he doesn’t want to know anything about. They strap him to some kind of table and then there’s a man he hasn’t seen before. A small, smug man who greets him with a cruel fondness and tells him how proud he should be of himself to have been selected. He wants to ask what he’s been “selected” for but he knows his voice will break and he won’t give this man the satisfaction. He shaking—he tells himself it’s the cold, not fear—when a guard is forced between his teeth. He doesn’t have time to wonder about it before the largest needle he’s ever seen is brought to his arm. 

It burns. Burns not like fire, but ice. Whatever it is, it makes his blood so cold it burns. 

And Bucky screams. 

The burning cold doesn’t leave him when his limp form is dragged back to his cell. It holds even as he hears the others scream, subjected to the same. Within hours it’s quiet. It’s hours before someone speaks up with a broken voice, repeating a name, a rank, a number. They all follow suit, having nothing else to do. No other way to stay alive and sane. Bucky shuts his eyes and speaks as clearly as his tired throat will let him, praying that when he opens them again he’ll be back in Brooklyn. And Steve will be there, and he’ll make him warm again, and everything will be fine. 

There are fewer of them returned to their cells when they’re given the injection again the next day. Fewer names, fewer ranks, few numbers. 

Even less survive the third day. 

Not ten are left on the fourth. 

Three by the fifth. 

On the sixth, Bucky is alone. 

He’s never been so cold before. 

All he can think of is home. Steve. The slow realization that he is never going to see him again. He is never going to be warm again. He mutters his name, rank, number, quietly all hours of the day. Pretends that any moment he’ll wake up from this nightmare. And he’ll tell Steve about it and he’ll have something dumb-but-clever to say to take the edge off of it. But this is reality, and there’s nothing here but him and the cold. 

He barely feels the pain on the seventh day; the cold has finally begun to numb him. And when they strap him to the table again, and the smug little man praises him—praises him like a well-trained dog—he just keeps muttering and tries to retreat further into his frozen self. They don’t take him back to his cell anymore, and the smug little man uses his strange machines on him. Somewhere inside himself he’s aware of the agony his body is in, but he can’t bring himself to care anymore. 

_Sorry, Steve. I’m so sorry. So, so sorry._

_It’s just so_ cold. 

"Bucky?” There’s a voice in the void. “Oh my God …” 

“Is that …?” It’s not; he knows it’s not. It can’t be. 

There’s a figure over him now, a light in the darkness. The restraints holding him fall away, “It’s me. It’s Steve.” 

“Steve?” 

“Come on.” He’s being pulled upward. 

“Steve.” He can’t stop the idiotic grin that spreads across his face. _Steve!_

“I thought you were dead.” Steve says, touching Bucky’s face carefully. 

For an instant Bucky thinks he _must_ be seeing things, because this is not Steve. This is a strange, enormous man with Steve’s face. And his voice. And …and his warmth. 

_It is you._

“I thought you were smaller.” Is all he can get out. 

It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care why Steve is a giant—or maybe he’s the one who’s been shrunk—or how he got there. He’s here. Steve came for him. He came for him and suddenly Bucky isn’t cold anymore. Because as long as Steve is there, he’ll never be cold again.


	2. Warm Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second and final part, takes place after The Winter Soldier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like/hate, tell me! Constructive criticism is welcome!

It’s cold tonight. He hates the cold. He always has, he thinks. As far back as he knows he can remember. But then, he isn’t sure how far back that goes. He’s never sure what’s memory and what’s made up to fill in the gaps. Imagined things based on what he’s read about James Buchanan Barnes.

He disappears into the darkness. Tries to find a safe place to rest. He doesn’t have much time to sleep. _They_ are searching for him. He cannot let himself be found. Not by _them_. He’s been fighting them off for months. They won’t stop coming. He won’t be taken back.

Too much fills his head. He shakes it out. Finds shelter. Sleeps. Dreams.

 

_“I’m invisible._   
_I’m turning into you._   
_It’s like a horrible dream.”_

_A pat on the shoulder._   
_“Don’t take it so hard._   
_Maybe she’s got a friend.”_

_A roll of his eyes. A laugh from his mouth._  
 _“Very funny, Rogers._  
 _Think you’re special now that the dames like you?”_

_Warm blue eyes and a smile._  
 _“You’re just gonna have to accept it, Buck.”_

_“Yeah, well I got news for you pal.”_   
_You were always special._

_He doesn’t say it._   
_He wants to say it. But he doesn’t say it._

 

Memory or made up?

 

He doesn’t know. Can’t focus on that. _They_ are coming. He must flee.

He hides. Watches.

Hiding is safer than fighting. He is still injured. Right arm broken. Left strong, but soon will need repairs. There is damage inside him. Broken ribs? He doesn’t know. Just knows he is not in a good enough condition to fight _them_. Too injured. Too tired. Too hungry. Too cold.

So he hides.

There is a strange feeling. He can’t describe it. He does not want to go back with _them_. If he does, he will be punished. _They_ will hurt him. Take away his thoughts. His memories. Even the ones he made up. _They_ will freeze him. Put him back into storage. _They_ will take him away from himself. He will be nothing again but a weapon. Cold and empty.

He doesn’t want that.

If anyone is to find him, he hopes it would at least be Captain Rogers. Steve. His friend? He doesn’t know. At the very least, Rogers himself seemed to think so. He understands why; his face is identical to James Buchanan Barnes’. If Rogers finds him, he won’t be hurt. At least he doesn’t think so. He doesn’t think Rogers will punish him. Take away his thoughts. Freeze him. He won’t do that.

He tries to stop shivering. He needs to be silent. But it’s cold. He wants to be warm, but warm places have cameras and people and light. No good for hiding. He watches.

_Captain America, out the open. Surrounded by debris._  
 _A man dressed head to toe in black nearby. Out of the Captain’s sight._  
 _Ready to kill him._  
 _Rage._  
 _How_ dare _he? No one tries to hurt his Steve._  
 _No one._  
 _He fires._  
 _The man falls dead._  
 _Captain America looks at the man. Then at him._  
 _Salutes._

 

Memory or made up?

 

Food. A shelter for homeless people. Like him. He blends. As long as he keeps his left arm covered. No one pays him any mind. A blanket is over his shoulders. It does nothing. The cold won’t let him go. He is still its prisoner. Maybe _they_ are using it to track him. He doesn’t know how to be rid of it.

He thinks Steve Rogers might. Can he go to him? Steve Rogers and the man with wings. They too are searching for him. He sees Rogers sometimes. Catches a glimpse of him, never far behind. He always disappears before Rogers can see him, though. He can’t help it.

_Cold._   
_Shivering._   
_Blanket tight around him._   
_Snow outside._   
_Cold. So cold._   
_Coughing. Not his._

_Teeth chattering. His._   
_“Are you ok-k-kay, S-steve?”_

_More coughing._   
_“F-fffine, Buck._   
_I-I’ll b-be fffine.”_

_More shivering. So cold._  
 _“Y-you s-sure?_  
 _D-don’t nnneed any, anything?”_

_“No.”_

_Moves closer to another body on the mattress._  
 _It’s warm._  
 _Wraps his arms around it. Soaks up the warmth._  
 _Feels better._

_Warm._

 

Memory or made up?

 

He’s running. _They_ have found him again. Chasing him. Can’t fight them. Not in his condition. Too many of them. He’s too tired. Too hungry. Too cold.

Keep running.

He can’t fight anymore.

 

_“Damn it, Steve, just run away next time!”_  
 _A bruised and bloody face._  
 _“Can’t do that.”_  
 _“Why?”_  
 _“I won’t be able to_ stop _running.”_

 

Memory or made up?

 

He can’t stop running. He’s afraid. _They_ are catching up. _They_ will hurt him.

He can’t go on much longer.

He has to.

Has to find somewhere safe. Steve Rogers?

Can he get to Steve Rogers before _they_ capture him? If he can, will Steve Rogers keep him safe? Does he deserve to be kept safe?

Can’t defend himself anymore. His body is broken. Keep running.

_“Barnes._   
_James Buchanan._   
_Sergeant._   
_32557038”_   
_Pain._   
_Screaming._   
_Cold._

_“Barnes._   
_James Buchanan._   
_Sergeant._   
_32557038”_   
_Pain._   
_Screaming._   
_Cold._

_“Barnes._   
_James Buchanan._   
_Sergeant._   
_32557038”_   
_Pain._   
_Cold._   
_Pain._   
_Pain._   
_Pain._   
_Cold._   
_Pain._   
_Cold._   
_Cold._   
_Cold…_   
_A voice in the void._   
_“Bucky?_   
_Oh my God …”_

_“Is that …?”_   
_A figure over him. A light in the darkness._   
_Restraints falling away._   
_“It’s me. It’s Steve.”_   
_“Steve?”_   
_“Come on.”_   
_A grin._   
_“Steve.”_

_A hand on his face._   
_“I thought you were dead.”_   
_Warmth._   
_“I thought you were smaller.”_

 

Memory or made up?

 

He can’t run anymore. Can’t hide. He sits in a stairwell. Doesn’t even know if it’s the right place.

Cold. hungry. Tired. Cold. Scared.

He holds himself. Waits.

Tears fall. He doesn’t have the strength left to even wipe them away.

He waits.

And waits.

 

_“I’m with you till the end of the line, pal.”_

 

Memory or made up?

 

_“You’re my friend.”_

Memory.

“Bucky? Oh my God.”

He looks up. Steve Rogers is in front of him. His eyes are filled with too many emotions to be read.

Steve Rogers touches his face— _his hands are warm_ —and speaks softly, “Bucky? Can you hear me?”

He nods once.

“Say something. Please, Bucky, please say something.”

“I’m cold.”

Steve Rogers slides off his jacket and wraps it around him. He picks him up off the floor, gentle. Cradles him. Like a baby. Carries him up the stairs.

Warmth.

“You’re gonna be okay, Bucky. It’s gonna be okay. It’ll be alright.” He says those words over and over in a thousand different ways. He’s warm. “You’re safe now, Bucky. I’m here.”

He’s carried into an apartment. He’s too tired to process what’s happening. He tries to anyway.

Warm water around him. A washcloth brushing his skin. More words. A towel drying him. Still more words.

Arms around him. Warm arms. Silence now. Warmth.

_“You’re my mission._   
_You’re! My! Mission!”_

Memory.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. He wants to say the words but he can’t. Only whimpers come out.

Steve Rogers holds him tighter, “Shh. It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay. I’m here, I’m with you.”

_“Then finish it._   
_‘cause I’m with you, till the end of the line.”_

Memory.

“It’s okay, Bucky, it’s okay.”

_Till the end of the line._

_Steve._

_Warmth._   
_Steve._

Memory.

“Steve.”


End file.
